


From This Tenderness

by objectlesson



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: D/s undertones, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Pretty much just a PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 13:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4480832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ciel plays too much croquet, Sebastian helps him relax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From This Tenderness

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a prostate milking fic. That's pretty much all the depth in this entire story. A big thanks to Stray, who betaed this for me! Thank you so very much! <3 I stole the title from the Depeche Mode song Free, because every DM song somehow seems relevant to this pairing.
> 
> Note: ALL SEX WITH CHILDREN CIEL'S AGE IS RAPE, NON-CON, ABUSE, ETC. I do not ever ever ever ever condone this type of thing. Ciel is incapable of giving consent as an abused child, so every sex scene in any story I've ever written in this fandom is coerced and essentially non consensual. Read at your own risk knowing that just because this is a WORK OF FICTION about ANIME CHARACTERS, doesn't mean the dynamic therein is ok.

Ciel squirms on the carriage back from London. Sebastian watches him: the constant arranging and rearranging of his legs, one pale and willow-thin tossed carelessly atop the other for a moment before he switches, visibly uncomfortable. His elbow is propped against the window ledge, his cheek pressed with such disgruntled ferocity into his own knuckles that the skin there is flushed. Sebastian stares tenderly. He can smell the metallic bite of blood drawn to the surface of gossamer skin, and he licks his lips.

“Young master, please take care when crossing your legs. Your stockings are beginning to run,” Sebastian points out. “You appear quite restless.” 

Ciel glares, eye narrowed and cold with the unique brand of disgust he always regards Sebastian with when he feels condescended to. It is a very lovely shade of blue. “I am terribly sore,” Ciel complains, crossing his legs again, none too gently. The run in his left sock climbs an inch or so higher up his slender calf, and Sebastian is dually irritated and titillated by this muted revelation of skin. “Every position hurts. I cannot relax,” Ciel adds. 

“Sore? Surely not from a mere afternoon of croquet,” Sebastian muses. 

“Yes. An entire day of croquet is far more matches than anyone would ever care to play. It is downright excessive. But I suppose Lizzie excels in excess,” Ciel mumbles. 

They are returning from a weekend spent with Lady Elizabeth and the Marchioness, and as always, Ciel’s cousin spent the majority of the visit insisting he engage in a seemingly never-ending list of activities with her. After an evening of cards and checkers, both of which Ciel found insufferably trifling in their simplicity, he requested a change. She decided upon croquet, and it was how they spent the better part of the weekend, much to Ciel’s chagrin. 

“What exactly is causing you discomfort?” Sebastian pushes, forever invested in Ciel’s body and its every nuance, its every pain. After all, alongside his soul, it _is_ his possession. 

“My back,” Ciel answers thoughtfully, sitting up straight and wincing, rubbing idly at the lithe muscles on either side of his spine. “And my shoulders, and swinging arm.” 

“I see,” Sebastian says, nodding curtly. “It’s possible you strained yourself. You are, after all, not used to such physical exertion.” 

Ciel shoots him that glare again, fierce and blue, the flavor of winter’s first ice, certainly, if Sebastian could get his tongue into it. Hold Ciel down by his ribcage, pry the lid apart with black talons, and lick into that glorious iris. 

“I just want to get back to the manor,” Ciel snaps, slouching onto the carriage bench and grimacing. “So I can sit in my own chair.”

“I do hope you manage to relax once we return, young master,” Sebastian says, thinking of breaking two hundred and six pearlescent bones, and the way the muscles would lie flat and smooth and slack upon the mess of shattered ivory. 

\---

Ciel still feels dreadful, even in his favorite armchair in the study, the velvet-upholstered cerulean one where he tries to read prior to retiring for the night. The stinging ache has spread up his neck, creating a spasm that feels almost electrical when he turns his head too abruptly. It’s awfully distracting and he cannot focus on pleasure reading, let alone business. Mind made, he snaps his book shut and crosses his arms, sagging low and unrefined into the cushions, feeling very sorry for himself. “Sebastian,” he calls, not even half bothering to keep the lilting whine out of his voice. “Come do something about this.” 

In a flurry of tailcoats like falling ash, Sebastian is there before him, curved like a fang, white like bone where he is not otherwise black. Ciel shivers, taken aback as he sometimes is by Sebastian’s otherness, the cold reality of his inhumanity. “About what, my lord?” he asks, dipping into a crisp bow. 

Ciel thinks of folding paper, of creases in white parchment. “My shoulders and back. You must know something that can fix them. Every single position is agony and I am absolutely miserable,” Ciel explains, very nearly pouting. 

“Goodness,” Sebastian murmurs, mouth curling into a thin smile. It reminds Ciel of a sickle moon. “Did I detect some hyperbole in the young master’s predicament, or should I contact the Phantomhive family physician? It seems this particular ailment might surpass my medical prowess if the misery it causes is absolute.”

Ciel rolls his eyes, standing and walking stiffly to Sebastian, book forgotten upon the desk. “Shut up and don’t be ridiculous. You must know something that can help a sore muscle, if not then what are you good for, Sebastian.” 

Sebastian closes his eyes and cracks his knuckles. “I was trained in Thailand by a master masseuse while on a contract there, some years ago.” 

Ciel pauses for a moment, seriously weighing the reality of having Sebastian _massage_ him. On the one hand, he might be able to move without wincing tomorrow, or perhaps sleep tonight. On the other hand, he will have to suffer the inevitable humiliation and heat sickness Sebastian always brings about when he touches him. Ciel is no stranger to the sick storm of Sebastian’s hands on his flesh, under his skin, inside of him. It is what has become of him, one of the many side effects of having sold his soul to the devil. 

Ciel shivers, overwhelmed by the memory, the thought, the confusion. He knows that whether or not Sebastian rubs his sore muscles tonight, he will end up touching him another night, somehow. It always happens; Ciel always falls prey to it, gives into it, finds and follows it into the darkest corners. He imagines his condition must be like a lush giving into drink; powerless against destruction because it feels _so very good._

“Fine,” Ciel says, nodding to Sebastian, ceding to the inevitable sway. “Just make it feel better. I don’t care how.” 

“Very well, young master,” Sebastian says, and though Ciel cannot see it, he can feel the burn of garnet eyes scorching the back of his neck, he can feel the nip of incisors as if every smile were a bite. 

\---

Sebastian lights candles and a pyramid of myrrh incense before he undresses Ciel and advises he lay face down upon his bed, hips and everything below them hidden under a single sheet. 

“Where did you _get_ that?” Ciel asks, voice muffled by his pillow and forearms. “It smells like an opium den.” 

“It was a gift from Lau,” Sebastian answers, tugging his gloves off and rolling up his sleeves. “Perhaps not a very good one.” He pours some oil into a basin and coats his hands, which glint in the flicker of the candle light. He thinks briefly of what Ciel’s narrow white back will look like coated in a sheen, meat basted for the oven, or perhaps an anointed saint. He smiles, head cocked as he beholds this thing that is his in its entirety. “Are you ready, young master?” 

Ciel murmurs wordlessly and it almost sounds laced in fear, in apprehension. Sebastian’s stomach spikes with glee. Then he starts in on Ciel’s skin slowly, melting the hardness beneath his palm, kneading the heel of his hand into the hollow between Ciel’s delicate shoulder blades. “Ow,” Ciel says sharply, tensing beneath Sebastian’s fingertips. “Aren’t massages supposed to feel good?” 

“Forgive me,” Sebastian says, idly rubbing his hand down Ciel’s spine, stopping just above the dual indentations in the small of his back, twin valleys he has run his tongue over countless times, has painted in white over and over again. His in their entirety. Ciel shivers under him, lifts his hips off his mattress slightly, even involuntarily, to fit himself into Sebastian’s palm more snugly. “I did not realize the extent of your injury. I will be more cautious,” he says politely. 

“Just fix it,” Ciel mumbles. 

Sebastian drizzles more oil onto Ciel’s back, watches it drip and collect in the divots of his vertebrae before he pushes his bare palms up through it, kneading and smoothing over taut muscle. He works the oil into his skin, finding the knots and whorls in the layer of connective tissues pulled tight in the puzzle of Ciel’s body, imagining the complex network of pieces all fitting together beneath his skin, intricate and beautiful even when broken, misaligned. He wants to peel the fascia from Ciel’s flesh, so that he can pour into the damaged muscle beneath. He wants to press a fierce, open mouthed kiss to the jut of Ciel’s shoulder and suck a halfmoon of blood to the surface. He wants many things, and he wants them badlt, but he will not take them, not yet. He digs his fingers beneath its curve instead, feeling Ciel shudder and groan under him. “Better?” he murmurs, head dipped low to the shell of Ciel’s ear. 

“It’s ok,” Ciel answers after a while, settling deeper into the sheets. “More.” 

It is Sebastian’s very favorite word to hear fall from Ciel’s lips. 

\---

Ciel feels liquid and sanguine, melted into his own bed beneath the heat and weight of Sebastian’s exquisite hands. It’s too good, just as he knew it would be, so good it’s frightening, mind altering, maddening. He sinks deeper, shoulders aching and feeling like an exposed nerve, like Sebastian has flayed his skin from the muscle and is touching him there, pushing so very deeply into him that he’s raw and bleeding. “Ow,” he says again, but it comes out wet and heavy, more of a moan than a word. 

“Young master, you must have played a quite vigorous croquet tournament with Lady Elizabeth. You are so very tight,” Sebastian observes, words ground out like they came from behind his teeth. 

Ciel’s stomach plummets, insides splayed and unguarded. Something about the way Sebastian says _tight_ makes him twitch between his thighs, pubescent cock stirring against the damp smooth heat of his skin. Sebastian does this to him, makes his body spark to life in a shameful heat at the most absurd things. He says nothing, just pushes his face deeper into the bed, hands convulsing to fists on either side of his prone body. 

Sebastian’s breath is at his neck again, smelling smoky and metallic, ash laced in blood, as if often does when he wants Ciel, when he’s planning on splitting him apart and crawling inside the wound, filling him up like flood water into cracked earth. Ciel inhales raggedly; he loves this smell, he fears it and craves it and everything that comes in its wake. “Have you found the relaxation you sought, young master?” Sebastian says in a voice like the blackest of oils. 

Chills erupt down Ciel’s back, his spine arching as he presses himself, half-hard, into the bed. Sebastian must feel the change because he hisses, guiding him with a palm spread like roots at the lowermost dip of his back, just above the sheet. “I don’t know,” Ciel breathes, his voice shaky and weak, containing none of its usual conviction. He hates that it sounds that way, he hates how he loses himself to the thrill of this pain. Sebastian does this to him, too.

“You don’t know,” Sebastian murmurs, taking it upon himself to push the sheet down Ciel’s hips to the tender backs of his knees, exposing his ass and thighs to the night. Ciel shivers beneath the cutting gaze, holding his breath as Sebastian draws his index finger down his spine, further still, until it rests at the delicate jut of his tail bone. “Perhaps the young master requires a deeper stimulation in order to truly relax?” 

Ciel’s cheeks color, heating up against where his face is buried in his own sheets, and he is glad Sebastian cannot see the extent of his shame. “I hate you,” he says, and he means it, though his body is saying something different, pushing up into Sebastian’s touch like he’s hungry for it, like he doesn’t know how to resist after trying and failing so many times before this. Part of him _does_ hate Sebastian, hates the wild desperate creature he becomes in his thrall, hates the power he loses when he wants him like this. It would be unforgivable if it wasn’t such bliss. 

\---

“Do you?” Sebastian sighs, a quiet _tsk_ on his tongue. He coats his fingers in oil and then drags them down the pale swell of Ciel’s ass, digging his thumbs into the humid crease where they meet his thighs, ghosting dangerously close to what lies between them, admiring the pink pathway his hands leave on lily-white skin. Ciel lets himself be manipulated, kneaded and handled like bread dough as Sebastian pushes into him, makes him slick and shining and supple, loving the tiny, muted sounds escaping Ciel’s lips. Sebastian can see his cheeks burning with shame, the perfect red of his vulnerability, the color of heart-blood, of viscera. He wants to taste it; he wants to swallow it all. 

Sebastian draws closer and closer to Ciel’s hole, parting him with each rough stroke of his hands without actually touching him there, leaving Ciel to whimper and writhe and tense and ripple, hips arched off the sheets desperately. “Do you want something more, my lord?” Sebastian asks, holding Ciel open, thumb mere inches away from the tender, clenching pucker of his ass. He is so very lovely when spread, cracked open like a locket. “Perhaps you are hungry?” 

Ciel sobs, a choked, broken moan of frustration muffled with sheets as he grinds against his bed. Sebastian smiles, thrilled by how easy he is to break, how quickly he’s robbed of the dignity he supposedly holds dear. “Sebastian,” he murmurs, hips working in graceless circular bucks. “Please.” It is the second loveliest word. 

Sebastian works his saliva to a froth in his mouth, holding Ciel open and wanting as he bends his head and spits directly onto his hole. It lands wetly and Ciel cries out, twitching under the thick slickness of it, opening and closing and glistening in the low light. Sebastian admires him, humming lightly as he pushes his thumb through his spit, finally brushing over the flickering ring of muscle. “Are you sore here, too, young master?” He mocks. 

Nodding, Ciel rolls his head to the side, taking in wild breath, eyes shut and hair clinging to the perspiration on his brow. “Please,” he says again mindlessly, pushing himself against Sebastian’s fingertip. “Please.” 

“It’s important young boys learn patience,” Sebastian reminds him, rubbing his finger gently up and down Ciel’s crack, slicking him in spit and oil, making him sloppy and loose and perfect. He circles his hole, pushing and nudging inside with a black nail, but only just. Ciel grinds his teeth and thrashes, trying hard to impale himself, to be filled and completed. 

Sebastian holds his body down with one hand, keeping him pinned as he teases him, dipping occasionally into clenching heat before sliding out easily, leaving him empty and hungry once again. 

“ _Stop_ ,” Ciel demands, making fists in his sheets and twisting lewdly. “You’re being so unfair,” he whines then, drooling gloriously, a string of clear white spit adhering his plush lips to the bed. Sebastian thinks of the slick heat of his mouth, the infernal, sinning suck of it, his to split, his to strangle. He bends to lick the filament away, victorious. 

\---

Ciel feels wrecked and Sebastian isn’t even inside of him yet, not enough, not really. He is mostly just looking at him, holding him split and wet and exposed. The whole of Ciel’s body is tingling with the heady, humiliating knowledge that Sebastian is staring at his very center, his most private place, straight into him and he is powerless to shield himself from the prying gaze of hell. 

He gasps as Sebastian touches him, lightly, fleetingly, just running his fingers over him, into him, almost clinically as if he is still just touching under the pretense of massage. “So tight here,” he murmurs, thumbing against Ciel’s hole, sinking into him up to the joint of his first knuckle and Ciel can’t help himself, he groans loud and long, stilling so he can feel each centimeter of the invasion. 

Ciel _hates_ the sounds he makes when Sebastian fucks him, he hates the high keening whimpers, the animal yelps and the horrible, obscene wet suck of his body, his flesh, his desire. There is nothing he can do to silence his flesh, but he can at least gag himself until Sebastian sees and does something about it, pulls his fist from his mouth, the wad of sheets from his teeth so that he can delight in Ciel’s every cry. Now Ciel puts his thumb in his mouth like a child, sucking on it so his mouth is too occupied to moan and pant, so that each sound is at least muffled around his own skin. 

Finally, Sebastian slides a single finger in deep, pushing and twisting into Ciel as if he were butter-soft, his to rend open and fill. It feels like coming home and Ciel curls himself tight around the moment and holds it close, body stone-still and whip-limber as he takes everything Sebastian has to give him. “Good boy,” Sebastian says quietly, carding his other hand through the sweat-damp mess of Ciel’s hair, coaxing him to open up further. 

“More,” Ciel begs, voice torn around his own thumb, loathsome in its raw, unguarded hunger. He shuts his eyes tight, like closing them will keep him from knowing the vile picture he’s painting. 

“Patience,” Sebastian repeats, rubbing Ciel’s sore shoulder with one hand as he pistons his finger in and out of the hot clench of his insides. His body feels so worked over, so overstimulated and nervy and raw he can do nothing but shake, riding the rhythm of Sebastian’s finger, deep and aching and painful in its deliberate slowness. “I’m curious how much longer you can wait, young master,” he says in a voice like timber. “But there are things I want, too.”

Ciel cries out as he adds another finger, sliding it in easily beside the first and crooking both of them so that he digs into the slick gripping heat of his walls, pushing deep into the spot inside him which makes his vision white out in stars, his skin break out in sweat. Sebastian is a blackness that fills the room, puts out its candles, consumes Ciel’s body and shapes it into a weapon, sharp and stinging and glorious. Ciel should be afraid, and he is. However, his fear exists alongside his need, is drowned by it, and all he can do is yearn for more. 

\---

Sebastian fucks Ciel mercilessly, thrusting his fingers into the place he knows will make him come without even touching his smooth little cock, will make him fray and shatter just like this, oiled up and spread out on his stomach in his bed. He is so very perfect, pink and white like spit-diluted blood spatter on snow, eyes shut tight in bliss, lips swollen around his thumb buried in the baby-soft suck of his mouth. “Are you loosening up, young master?” Sebastian asks, sounding somewhat breathless as he rubs Ciel, milks him from the inside out. 

“Yes,” Ciel mumbles around his thumb, looking so terribly young and ruined Sebastian cannot stand to keep dry and aching when Ciel is making his own skin puckered with his spit. He pulls his fingers out with a wet sound, wiping the patina of spit and shit and oil on the back of Ciel’s thigh before unbuttoning his trousers, eyes roving, famished, over the ruin of pale skin before him. 

Ciel is sobbing at the vacancy, hips arched off the bed and humping the air, pathetically and wordlessly begging to be filled again. Sebastian tugs his own cock free from the pressed linen of his pants with one hand while he encircles the narrow slip of Ciel’s wrist with the other, pulling his thumb from his mouth with a pop. “You are far too old for thumb-sucking, my lord,” he murmurs, nudging his cock-head against the plump pink slickness of Ciel’s mouth. He opens easily; he loves this, he’s made for it, groaning as he licks the beading precum from Sebastian’s slit like sugar from a teaspoon. 

Sebastian sighs at the terrible glory of it, making a fist in Ciel’s hair and aligning him just right, holding him steady so he can fuck his mouth. “Please,” Ciel murmurs around his cock, mouth full and voice muffled to nothingness, back arched lewdly. “Please, inside.” 

Sebastian smiles, sliding his fingers back to his slippery crack, fucking back down into him with three fingers this time. Ciel’s moan stings, his teeth scraping and body a mess of shudders and quakes as he struggles to accommodate the new thickness. Sebastian does not wait for Ciel to adjust, he pumps his fingers into the perfect heat of him, meets his wild little bucks halfway. His own breath falls ragged and torn from his open mouth as he fucks Ciel’s throat, eyes crimson and incisors deadly as he feels Ciel tensing, clamping down hard on his knuckles like a heartbeat. 

\---

Ciel chokes on Sebastian as he comes, hips arched off the bed, desperate and snapping as he coughs and drools and gags, tears streaming from his eyes to collect in the corner of his stretched-wide mouth. There is nothing like this, nothing feels close to the combined horror and splendor of Sebastian turning him inside out like this, making him come from the depths of his basest interior. He sobs as Sebastian pulls out from his mouth in a thick mess of saliva and mucus, thumbing over the torn ring of his lips before bending to kiss it, lick him up, clean him like a cat. “Such a good boy,” he murmurs into his ruined mouth, still fucking him with his fingers. 

Ciel collapses, whimpering, hiding his face in his arms now that he’s come down from the splendor and is left weak and bleeding in the tar-pits of shame, sick with the deep burn of his insides. Sebastian is behind him, pulling him up by his hips and burying his face in the humid mess of his ass, sucking and lapping and fucking the used muscle with his tongue. 

He grits his teeth, spent cock twitching even though he doesn’t even have the strength to hold himself upright or squirm out of Sebastian’s grip, away from the humiliating heat of his mouth. “Stop,” he says unconvincingly, voice muffled with damp sheets, throat hoarse. “I can’t, I can’t move.” 

“You don’t have to move,” Sebastian assures him, licking one long strip from his balls to his tailbone before pulling away and aligning himself, cock still dripping in Ciel’s spit. He pushes in easily, as Ciel is already loose and destroyed, spine arching and breath coming out in a short fierce burst as Sebastian buries himself, sheathed entirely in Ciel. “You may relax, young master,” he says gently, and Ciel does, pulsing around him, breath labored and chest heaving. 

Sebastian rides Ciel to quick finish, elegant snaps of his hips which make Ciel’s flesh ripple and flicker with the force as he’s fucked into the sheets, into the wet mess of his own spilled come. With Sebastian’s teeth sunk triumphantly into his sore shoulder he twitches around the surge of sticky heat inside of him, eyes clenched tight and hips bucking like he were coming again, like Sebastian’s end is his own. “Good boy,” Sebastian says one final time through his teeth as he releases him, licking the tender indentations his canines made in pale skin, sliding from Ciel’s wreck of a body in a slick of come. 

Ciel lies motionless save for the steady and rapid rise and fall of his chest, inhalations deep, sated. Sebastian rolls him over onto his back like a limp rag doll and Ciel lets him, heavy and unmoving, lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks as Sebastian licks up the puddle of Ciel’s come from the bed, thin and near translucent with his pubescence. 

He breathes in and out, feeling drugged, dizzy, close to sleep. Sebastian leaves and comes back with a cool damp cloth, uses it to wipe Ciel clean, layers of oil and seed and spit and sweat until he is immaculate, baptized, sighing. “My shoulder still hurts,” he tells him, moving his swinging arm experimentally, rewarded with a dull ache far less acute than i had been previously. He shrugs. “Though not as badly.” 

“Sleep, young master. I can repeat the _massage_ tomorrow night, as well, if you feel no improvement after resting,” he explains, placing a single, lingering kiss to the slowing beat of Ciel’s heart, contained in the cage of his ribs, before he tucks him in. 

Ciel throws an arm over his face, so Sebastian does not see the terrible smile which splits his face as he says, “Perhaps.” 

\---


End file.
